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06-25-2017, 05:29 PM
Art by Neverr ♥
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
The gray clouds had parted. They had swept themselves aside and away, into some other corner of the vast, lonesome world.
They had pulled back to reveal an autumn sunset red as blood, and he felt the slow ticking of his clock—the nights came earlier. Were colder. Lasted longer. The morning light took on the cold blue shades of winter. The first frost had come. And the sunset, its bronzed sun sinking beneath the horizon, had slowly turned a rare metallic purple and green.
A kind of nod, tip of the hat. The north stretching out its hand, breaking borders, to say farewell to a creature too weak to find it.
He was fairly sure the world as he knew it was ending.
He could flee to some other corner of the world. He could run for the hell of it, for his life, for the lives sitting upon his back, talons thoughtlessly grounded in his thin flesh. He could, but he wouldn't. His heart beat on, relentlessly.
He didn't trust it. It was the Moon's mark, her blessing, her rune etched into it—the Gods had fought dangers before, when they had stranded the world in a blackness thicker than the night's, when not even moon or stars had been there to light them.
But if she didn't come back from their divine battle with Kaos...
If she didn't come back, he was fucked, and the slow turning of the season marked his fourteenth birthday.
Fourteen. He breathed out, and his sigh plumed white in the crisp night. It certainly wasn't every day you eased into the start of your fifteenth year alive, but it wasn't every day you realized that the immortality you had taken for granted might not be so permanent after all. If the Goddess died, and her gift with it, he would, honestly, be kind of ..disappointed. Here he'd gone and worked himself up into some kind of melancholy hopelessness about his lifespan, and he might not even get to enjoy it after all.
The world and its small cruelties. Mauja snorted to himself. He'd spent enough time staring at the sun of a dying world. The least he could do was watch the night sky from a different angle, and so, he began his slow, pained walk along the rim of the cliff.
They had pulled back to reveal an autumn sunset red as blood, and he felt the slow ticking of his clock—the nights came earlier. Were colder. Lasted longer. The morning light took on the cold blue shades of winter. The first frost had come. And the sunset, its bronzed sun sinking beneath the horizon, had slowly turned a rare metallic purple and green.
A kind of nod, tip of the hat. The north stretching out its hand, breaking borders, to say farewell to a creature too weak to find it.
He was fairly sure the world as he knew it was ending.
He could flee to some other corner of the world. He could run for the hell of it, for his life, for the lives sitting upon his back, talons thoughtlessly grounded in his thin flesh. He could, but he wouldn't. His heart beat on, relentlessly.
He didn't trust it. It was the Moon's mark, her blessing, her rune etched into it—the Gods had fought dangers before, when they had stranded the world in a blackness thicker than the night's, when not even moon or stars had been there to light them.
But if she didn't come back from their divine battle with Kaos...
If she didn't come back, he was fucked, and the slow turning of the season marked his fourteenth birthday.
Fourteen. He breathed out, and his sigh plumed white in the crisp night. It certainly wasn't every day you eased into the start of your fifteenth year alive, but it wasn't every day you realized that the immortality you had taken for granted might not be so permanent after all. If the Goddess died, and her gift with it, he would, honestly, be kind of ..disappointed. Here he'd gone and worked himself up into some kind of melancholy hopelessness about his lifespan, and he might not even get to enjoy it after all.
The world and its small cruelties. Mauja snorted to himself. He'd spent enough time staring at the sun of a dying world. The least he could do was watch the night sky from a different angle, and so, he began his slow, pained walk along the rim of the cliff.
